Recorded by Justin Pizzoferrato in Western Mass 06.19.15
Music by Slip Grass. Lyrics by Ryan Duffy.
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Clowns cruise highways that the Masters, like slaves, once paved. These costumed buffoons want their heaps of hype churned out like tripe. Welcome to amateur hour: all expertise, just a click away. A charlatan’s cheap charade: served piss labeled ‘lemonade.’ They track the cookies, and they use the fellows, yet they’re all no-mouth people. But dullards thrive and dote on lazy fools they lionize, as they drool, like it, wince and swipe. With half a heart they fill their carts, somehow convinced that they’ve gotta have it. It’s a lifelong amateur hour, a round-th’-clock amateur hour. Twenty lashes oughta set you straight. Now, we can sniff you out. We can break you down. We will snuff you out. We can rap you raw – you’ll taste the full tang of Law. I’m terrorizing Terra in Ma’s killing machine. Back home, captive eunuchs bleat for mystery meats. E-moguls want my mind, I’m gonna grant them the key; I won’t hesitate to pledge my hand to crystal screens. Prey for grey routines: deranged man or defanged beast? Primp and preen, scalding steam, cleansed of lowly cultures, all sights unseen. Razing precious greens for endless wasted reams – modern monsters, we reign supreme. A new day and a new neurosis – ruled by Babylon, marooned in Carcosa. State dollars stashed away young ‘scholars’ in the Hampshire hills, a hell since ‘22. “Idiot... or imbecile?” Squalor, dolor and collars for the ape boys and girls in this human zoo. “Idiot?… imbecile?… or moron?” Sixteen years snared in their nets as you raise your eyes to say yes – but are you really a moron? “Idiot?… imbecile?… or moron?”
Your springtime’s past and your vigor’s faded. Exhume your youth, memories get tainted. The magic’s gone – it’s gone, I fear. A grab for glory with a hollow cheer. Now stages moan with dusty bones and Memory Lane is full of holes. That lamprey in your side will suck you dry. Here’s another carrot on a stick, a trap door at your feet – an icy grotto awaits you underneath. A mother sobs goodbyes while she pecks her baby blind. Glom onto you, a ghostlike crime, you disappear before our eyes. Day in, day out: “Fall back, spring ahead.” Twelve hours of winter twilight can eat you alive. Rumination casts a pall – I’ll bash my doldrums with a maul. I’m climbing the walls. Confusion foundation, derealization. A.M. through P.M., D.S.T., S.A.D. We’ve sealed the fate of the Bay State, whose poisoned troughs won’t satiate. Boot up and bite down, tripped up with trou down – a fix amiss, waylaid by the poppy’s kiss. A surrogate whore in a cold commode, another hoofed hearse via the Silk Road. Branded flank: the letter ‘H’... an equine demise in the Digital Age. The reaper waltzes in and whisks you from your cozy pew – that fabled guiding light ain’t there to cradle you. Seraphs slip and they stumble, their ruse reduced to rubble. Chilled by the cold truth – a case of the sacred blues. No gilded skies, no Ivory, no knightly saints on bended knees; those sunny tales they told you ain’t worth a sneeze. The psychopomp leads the bolero while that blues burns right through your marrow. Your rosaries will rot you. Your moron folks begot you.
